THE WOMAN WHO DELIBERATES IS LOST.
“O North-wind! blow strong with God’s breath in twenty million
men.”—_Rev. John Weiss._
“Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o’er the mountains,
Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea,
Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy fountains,
Draughts of life to me.”—_Miss Muloch._
On coming down to the breakfast-table one morning, Kenrick was delighted
to encounter Vance, and asked, “What success?”
“I found in Natchez,” was the reply, “an old colored man who knew Davy
and his wife. They removed to New York, it seems, some three years ago.
I must push my inquiries further. The clew must not be dropped. The old
man, my informant, was formerly a slave. He came into my room at the
hotel, and showed me the scars on his back. Ah! I, too, could have
showed scars, if I had deemed it prudent.”
“Cousin William,” said Kenrick, “I wouldn’t take the testimony of our
own humane overseer as to slavery. I have studied the usages on other
plantations. Let me show you a photograph which I look at when my
antislavery rage wants kindling, which is not often.”
He produced the photograph of a young female, apparently a quarteroon,
sitting with back exposed naked to the hips,—her face so turned as to
show an intelligent and rather handsome profile. The flesh was all
welted, seamed, furrowed, and scarred, as if both by fire and the
scourge.
“There!” resumed Kenrick, “that I saw taken myself, and know it to be
genuine. It is one out of many I have collected. The photograph cannot
lie. It will be terrible as the recording angel in reflecting slavery as
this civil war will unearth it. What will the Carlyles and the
Gladstones say to this? Will it make them falter, think you, in their
Sadducean hoot against a noble people who are manfully fighting the
great battle of humanity against such infernalism as this?”
“They would probably fall back on the doubter’s privilege.”
“Yes, that’s the most decent way of escape. But I would pin them with
the sharp fact. That woman (her name was Margaret) belonged to the Widow
Gillespie,[31] on the Black River. Margaret had a nursing child, and,
out of maternal tenderness, had disobeyed Mrs. Gillespie’s orders to
wean it. For this she was subjected to _the punishment of the hand-saw_.
She was laid on her face, her clothes stripped up to around her neck,
her hands and feet held down, and Mrs. Gillespie, sitting by, then
‘paddled,’ or stippled the exposed body with the hand-saw. She then had
Margaret turned over, and, with heated tongs, attempted to grasp her
nipples. The writhings of the victim foiled her purpose; but between the
breasts the skin and flesh were horribly burned.”
“A favorite remark,” said Vance, “with our smug apologists of slavery,
is, that an owner’s interests will make him treat a slave well.
Undoubtedly in many cases so it is. But I have generally found that
human malignity, anger, or revenge is more than a match for human
avarice. A man will often gratify his spite even at the expense of his
pocket.”
Kenrick showed the photograph of a man with his back scarred as if by a
shower of fire.
“This poor fellow,” said Kenrick, “shows the effects of the _corn-husk
punishment_; not an unusual one on some plantations. The victim is
stretched out on the ground, with hands and feet held down. Dry
corn-husks are then lighted, and the burning embers are whipped off with
a stick so as to fall in showers of live sparks on the naked back. Such
is the ‘patriarchal’ system! Such the tender mercies bestowed on ‘our
man-servants and our maid-servants,’ as that artful dodger, Jeff Davis,
calls our plantation slaves.”
“And yet,” remarked Vance, “horrible as these things are, how small a
part of the wrong of slavery is in the mere _physical_ suffering
inflicted!”
“Yes, the crowning outrage is mental and moral.”
“This war,” resumed Vance, “is not sectional, nor geographical, nor, in
a party sense, political: it is a war of eternally antagonistic
principles,—Belial against Gabriel.”
“I took up a Northern paper to-day,” said Kenrick, “in which the writer
pleads the necessity of slavery, because, he says, ‘white men can’t work
in the rice-swamps.’ Truly, a staggering argument! The whole rice
production of the United States is only worth some four millions of
dollars per annum! A single factory in Lowell can beat that. And we are
asked to base a national policy on such considerations!”
Here the approach of guests led to a change of topic.
“And how have _your_ affairs prospered?” asked Vance.
“Ah! cousin,” replied Kenrick, “I almost blush to tell you what an
experience I’ve had.”
“Not fallen in love, I hope?”
“If it isn’t that, ’t is something very near it. The lady is staying
with Miss Tremaine. A Miss Perdita Brown. Onslow took me to see her.”
“And which is the favored admirer?”
“Onslow, I fear. I’m not a lady’s man, you see. Indeed, I never wished
to be till now. Give me a few lessons, cousin. Teach me a little
small-talk.”
“I must know something of the lady first.”
“To begin at the beginning,” said Kenrick, “there can be no dispute as
to her beauty. But there is a something in her manner that puzzles me.
Is it lack of sincerity? Not that. Is it preoccupation of thought?
Sometimes it seems that. And then some apt, flashing remark indicates
that she has her wits on the alert. You must see her and help me read
her. You visit Miss Laura?”
“Yes. I’ll do your bidding, Charles. How often have you seen this
enchantress?”
“Too often for my peace of mind: three times.”
“Is she a coquette?”
“If one, she has the art to conceal art. There seems to be something on
her mind more absorbing than the desire to fascinate. She’s an
unconscious beauty.”
“Say a deep one. Shall we meet at Miss Tremaine’s to-night?”
“Yes; the moth knows he’ll get singed, but flutter he must.”
“Take comfort, Charles, in that of thought of Tennyson’s, who tells us,
‘That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire.’”
The cousins parted. They had no sooner quitted the breakfast-room than
Onslow entered. After a hasty meal, he took his sword-belt and
military-cap, and walked forth out of the hotel. As he passed Wakeman’s
shop, near by, for the sale of books and periodicals, he was attracted
by a photograph in a small walnut frame in the window. Stopping to
examine it, he uttered an exclamation of surprise, stepped into the
shop, and said to Wakeman, “Where did you get that photograph?”
“That was sent here with several others by the photographer. You’ll find
his name on the back.”
“I see. What shall I pay you for it?”
“A dollar.”
“There it is.”
Onslow took the picture and left the shop, but did not notice that he
was followed by a well-dressed gentleman with a cigar in his mouth. This
individual had been for several days watching every passer-by who looked
at that photograph. He now followed Onslow to the head-quarters of his
regiment; put an inquiry to one of the members of the Captain’s company,
and then strolled away as if he had more leisure than he knew what to do
with. But no sooner had he turned a corner, than he entered a carriage
which was driven off at great speed.
Not an hour had passed when a black man in livery put into Onslow’s
hands this note:—
“Will you come and dine with me at five to-day without ceremony?
Please reply by the bearer.
“Yours,
C. RATCLIFF.”
What can he want? thought Onslow, somewhat gratified by such an
attention from so important a leader. Presuming that the object merely
was to ask some questions concerning military matters, the Captain
turned to the man in livery, and said, “Tell Mr. Ratcliff I will come.”
Punctually at the hour of five Onslow ascended the marble steps of
Ratcliff’s stately house, rang the bell, and was ushered into a large
and elegantly furnished drawing-room, the windows of which were heavily
curtained so as to keep out the glare of the too fervid sunlight.
Pictures and statues were disposed about the apartment, but Onslow, who
had a genuine taste for art, could find nothing that he would covet for
a private gallery of his own.
Ratcliff entered, habited in a cool suit of grass-cloth. The light hues
of his vest and neck-tie heightened the contrast of his somewhat florid
complexion, which had now lost all the smoothness of youth.
Self-indulgent habits had faithfully done their work in moulding his
exterior. Portly and puffy, he looked much older than he really was. But
in his manner of greeting Onslow there was much of that charm which
renders the hospitality of a plantation lord so attractive. Throwing
aside all that arrogance which would have made his overseers and
tradespeople keep their distance, he welcomed Onslow like an old friend
and an equal.
“You’ve a superb house here,” said the ingenuous Captain.
“’T will do, considering that I sometimes occupy it only a month in the
year,” replied Ratcliff. “I’m glad to say I only hire it. The house
belonged to a Miss Aylesford, a Yankee heiress; then passed into the
possession of a New York man, one Charlton; but I pay the rent into the
coffers of the Confederate government. The property is confiscate.”
“Won’t the Yankees retaliate?”
“We sha’n’t allow them to.”
“After we’ve whipped Yankee-Doo-dle-dom, what then?”
“Then a strong military government. Having our slaves to work for us, we
shall become the greatest martial nation in the world. Our poor whites,
now a weakness and a burden, we will convert into soldiers and Cossacks;
excepting the artisan and trading classes, and them we must
disfranchise.”[32]
“Can we expect aid from England?” asked Onslow.
“Not open aid, but substantial aid nevertheless. Exeter Hall may
grumble. The _doctrinaires_, the Newmans, Brights, Mills, and Cobdens
may protest and agitate. The English clodhoppers, mudsills, and workies
of all kinds will sympathize of course with the low-born Yankees. But
the master race of England, the non-producers, will favor the same class
here. The disintegration of North America into warring States is what
they long to see. Already the English government is swift to hail us as
belligerents. Already it refuses what it once so eagerly proffered,—an
international treaty making privateering piracy. Soon it will let us fit
out privateers in English ports. Yes, England is all right.”
Here a slave-boy announced dinner, and they entered a smaller but lofty
apartment, looking out on a garden, and having its two open windows
pleasantly latticed with grape-vines. A handsome, richly dressed
quadroon lady sat at the table. In introducing his young guest, Ratcliff
addressed her as Madame Volney.
Onslow, in his innocence, inquired after Mrs. Ratcliff.
“My wife is an invalid, and rarely quits her room,” said the host.
The dinner was sumptuous, beginning with turtle-soup and ending with
ices and fruits. The costliest Burgundies and Champagnes were uncorked,
if only for a sip of their flavors. Madame Volney, half French, was
gracious and talkative, occasionally checking Ratcliff in his eating,
and warning him to be prudent. At last cigars were brought on, and she
left the room. Ratcliff rose and listened at the door, as if to be sure
she had gone up-stairs. Then, walking on tiptoe, he resumed his seat. He
alluded to the opera,—to the ballet,—to the subject of pretty women.
“And _apropos_ of pretty women,” he exclaimed, “let me show you a
photograph of one I have in my pocket.”
As he spoke, there was a rustling in the grape-vines at a window. He
turned, but saw nothing.
Onslow took the photograph, and exclaimed: “But this is astonishing!
I’ve a copy of the same in my pocket.”
“You surprise me, Captain. Do you know the original?”
“Quite well; and I grant you she’s beautiful.”
Onslow did not notice the expression of Ratcliff’s face at this
confession, but another did. Lifting a glass of Burgundy so as to help
his affectation of indifference, “Confess now, Captain,” said Ratcliff,
“that you’re a favorite! That delicate mouth has been pressed by your
lips; those ivory shoulders have known your touch.”
“O never! never!” returned Onslow, with the emphasis of sincerity in his
tone. “You misjudge the character of the lady. She’s a friend of Miss
Tremaine,—is now passing a few days with her at the St. Charles. A lady
wholly respectable. Miss Perdita Brown of St. Louis! That rascally
photographer ought to be whipped for making money out of her beautiful
picture.”
“Has she admirers in her train?” asked Ratcliff.
“I know of but one beside myself.”
“Indeed! And who is he?”
“Charles Kenrick has called on her with me.”
“By the way, Wigman tells me that Charles insulted the flag the other
day.”
“Poh! Wigman was so drunk he couldn’t distinguish jest from earnest.”
“So Robson told me. But touching this Miss Brown,—is she as pretty as
her photograph would declare?”
“It hardly does her justice. But her sweet face is the least of her
charms. She talks well,—sings well,—plays well,—and, young as she is,
has the bearing, the dignity, the grace, of the consummate lady.”
Here there was another rustling, as if the grape-vine were pulled.
Ratcliff started, went to the window, looked out, but, seeing nothing,
remarked, “The wind must be rising,” and returned to his seat. “I’ve
omitted,” said he, “to ask after your family; are they well?”
“Yes; they were in Austin when I heard from them last. My father, I
grieve to say, goes with Hamilton and his set in opposition to the
Southern movement. My brother, William Temple, is equally infatuated. My
mother and sister of course acquiesce. So I’m the only faithful one of
my family.”
“You deserve a colonelcy for that.”
“Thank you. Is your clock right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must go. I’ve an engagement.”
“Sorry for it. Beware of Miss Brown. This is the day of Mars, not Venus.
Good by.”
When Onslow had gone, Ratcliff sat five minutes as if meditating on some
plan. Then, drawing forth a pocket-book, he took out an envelope,—wrote
on it,—reflected,—and wrote again. When he had finished, he ordered the
carriage to be brought to the door. As he was passing through the hall,
Madame Volney, from the stairs, asked where he was going.
“To the St. Charles, on political business.”
“Don’t be out late, dear,” said Madame. “Let me see how you look. Your
neck-tie is out of place. Let me fix it. There! And your vest needs
buttoning. So!” And as her delicate hands passed around his person, they
slid unperceived into a side-pocket of his coat, and drew forth what he
had just deposited there.
“Bother! That will do, Josephine,” grumbled Ratcliff. She released him
with a kiss. He descended the marble steps of the house, entered a
carriage, and drove off.
Madame passed into the dining-room, the brilliant gas-lights of which
had not yet been lowered, and, opening the pocket-book, drew out several
photographic cards, all containing one and the same likeness of a young
and beautiful girl. As the quadroon scanned that fresh vernal
countenance, that adorably innocent, but earnest and intelligent
expression, those thick, wavy tresses, and that exquisitely moulded
bust, her own handsome face grew grim and ugly by the transmuting power
of anger and jealousy. “So, this is the game he’s pursuing, is it?” she
muttered. “This is what makes him restive! Not politics, as he pretends,
but this smoothed-faced decoy! Deep as you’ve kept it, Ratcliff, I’ve
fathomed you at last!”
Searching further among his papers, she found an envelope, on which
certain memoranda were pencilled, and among them these: “_First see
Tremaine. Arrange for seizure without scandal or noise. Early in morning
call on Gentry,—have her prepared. Take Esha with us to help._”
Hardly had Madame time to read this, when a carriage stopped before the
door. Laying the pocket-book with its contents, as if undisturbed, on
the table, she ran half-way up-stairs. Ratcliff re-entered, and, after
looking about the hall, passed into the dining-room. “Ah! here it is!”
she heard him say to the attendant; “I could have sworn I put it in my
pocket.” He then left the house, and the carriage again drove off,—drove
to the St. Charles, where Ratcliff had a long private interview with the
pliable Tremaine.
While it was going on, Laura and Clara sat in the drawing-room, waiting
for company. Laura having disapproved of the costume in which Clara had
first appeared, the latter now wore a plain robe of black silk; and
around her too beautiful neck Laura had put a collar, large enough to be
called a cape, fastening it in front with an old-fashioned cameo pin.
But how provoking! This dress would insist on being more becoming even
than the other!
Vance was the earliest of the visitors. On being introduced to Clara, he
bowed as if they had never met before. Then, seating himself by Laura,
he devoted himself assiduously to her entertainment. Clara turned over
the leaves of a music-book, and took no part in the conversation. Yes!
It was plain that Vance was deeply interested in the superficial, but
showy Laura. Well, what better could be expected of a man?
Once more was Laura summoned to the bed-side of her mother. “How
vexatious!” Regretfully she left the drawing-room. As soon as she had
gone, Vance rose, and, taking a seat by Clara, offered her his hand. She
returned its cordial pressure. “My dear young friend,” he said, “tell me
everything. What can I do for you?”
O, that she might fling herself on that strong arm and tender heart!
That she might disclose to him her whole situation! Impulses, eager and
tumultuous, urged her to do this. Then there was a struggle as if to
keep down the ready confession. Pride battled with the feminine instinct
that claimed a protector.
What! This man, on whom she had no more claim than on the veriest
stranger,—should she put upon him the burden of her confidence? This man
who in one minute had whispered more flattering things in the ear of
Laura than he had said to Clara during the whole of their
acquaintance,—should she ask favors from _him_? O, if he would, by look
or word, but betray that he felt an interest in her beyond that of mere
friendship! But then came the frightful thought, “I am a slave!” And
Clara shuddered to think that no honorable attachment between her and a
gentleman could exist.
“What of that? Surely I may claim from him the help which any true man
ought to lend to a woman threatened with outrage. Stop there! Does not
the chivalry of the plantation reverse the notions of the old
knight-errants, and give heed to no damsel in distress, unless she can
show free papers? Nay, will not the representative of the blood of all
the cavaliers look calmly on, and smoke his cigar, while a woman is
bound naked to a tree and scourged?”
And then her mind ran rapidly over certain stories which a slave-girl,
once temporarily hired by Mrs. Gentry, had told of the punishments of
female slaves: how, for claiming too long a respite from work after
childbirth, they had been “fastened up by their wrists to a beam, or to
a branch of a tree, their feet barely touching the ground,” and in that
position horribly scourged with a leather thong; perhaps, the father,
brother, or husband of the victim being compelled to officiate as the
scourger![33]
“But surely this man, whose very glance seems shelter and
protection,—this true and generous _gentleman_,—must belong to a very
different order of chivalry from that of the Davises, the Lees, and the
Toombses. Yes! I’ll stake my life he’s another kind of cavalier from
those foul, obscene, and dastardly woman-whipping miscreants and
scoundrels. Yes! I’ll comply with that gracious entreaty of his, ‘Tell
me everything!’ I’ll confess all.”
Her heart throbbed. She was on the point of uttering that one name,
_Ratcliff_,—a sound that would have inspired Vance with the power and
wisdom of an archangel to rescue her,—when there were voices at the
door, and Laura entered, followed by Onslow. They brought with them a
noise of talking and laughing. Soon Kenrick joined the party.
The golden opportunity seemed to have slipped by!
To Kenrick’s gaze Clara never appeared so transcendent. But there was an
unwonted paleness on her cheeks; and what meant that thoughtful and
serious air? For a sensitive moral barometer commend us to a lover’s
heart!
Of course there was music; and Clara sang.
“What do you think of her voice?” asked Laura of Vance.
“It justifies all your praises,” was the reply; and then, seeing that
Clara was not in the mood for display, he took her place at the piano,
and rattled away just as Laura requested. Onslow tried to engage Clara
in conversation; but a cloud, as if from some impending ill, was
palpably over her.
Kenrick sat by in silence, deaf to the brilliant music. Clara’s
presence, with its subtle magnetism, had steeped his own thoughts in the
prevailing hue of hers. Suddenly he turned to her, and whispered: “You
want help. What is it? Grant me the privilege of a brother. What can I
do for you?”
The glance Clara turned upon him was so full of thanks, so radiant with
gratitude, that hope sprang in his heart. But before she could put her
reply in words, Laura had come up, and taken her away to the piano for a
concluding song. Clara gave them Longfellow’s “Rainy Day” to Dempster’s
music.
The little gilt clock over the mantel tinkled eleven.
Vance rose to go, and said to Laura, “May I call on Miss Brown to-morrow
with some new music?”
“I’ll answer for her, yes,” replied Laura. “We shall be at home any time
after twelve.”
The gentlemen all took leave. Onslow made his exit the last. A rose that
had been fastened in Clara’s waist dropped on the floor. “May I have
it?” he asked, picking it up.
“Why not? I wish it were fresher. Good night!” And she put out her hand.
Onslow eagerly pressed it; but Clara, lifting his, said, “May this hand
never strike except for justice and human freedom!”
“Amen to that!” replied Onslow, before he well took in the entire
meaning of what she had said.
He hastened to rejoin his friends, following them through the corridor.
He seemed to tread on air. “I was the only one she offered to shake
hands with!” he exultingly soliloquized.
The three parted, after an interchange of good nights. Both Onslow and
Kenrick betook themselves to their rooms, each with no desire for other
companionship than his own rose-colored dreams.